nice day for a white wedding
by vega-de-la-lyre
Summary: There’s one room for Christine and McCoy to share. Of course there’s only one.
1. Chapter 1

They should have brought a bigger team.

"We should have brought a bigger team," McCoy says, and Christine sighs.

"At least they're already triaged," she says.

Enkahrnade is a small, isolated planet, made more isolated by their nearly complete disavowal of communications tech. Having achieved warp centuries ago, they've since abandoned most of their technological know-how in favour of cultivating a more simple and frankly pretty damned backwards society, which Christine thinks is _stupid_, especially considering the horrific drought and planet-wide fires they're suffering under now, and the fact that they've essentially painted themselves into a corner without the resources to get themselves out — but hey, she knows it's not her place to judge. When Kirk had contacted the planet's leaders earlier in the day, they'd admitted to needing some relief help, and to having an injury or two, but they'd massively downplayed the situation, and the medical team hadn't been expecting this many casualties, and they certainly hadn't come down here with the appropriate numbers.

There are endless rows of bloodied and burned Enkahrnadins filling this enormous hall, and she doesn't know how they're going to get to them all in time.

Well, it won't do any good to stand around and complain about it, especially considering the _Enterprise_ has already left orbit to deal with a diplomatic crisis in another system and won't be back for at least a standard day, probably longer. "Right," she says, and directs Nurse Byatt over to join Doctor Hakopian by the far wall. Byatt is young, and this is his first away mission, and she really wishes he didn't have to deal with this his first time planet-side; he blanches but nods firmly and runs to assist.

"Nurse Chapel," McCoy calls, bending over one blood-splattered and shaking patient, and she hurries forward to help him, unslinging her bag from her shoulder, when she is stopped forcibly by two Enkahrnadin officials who seize her upper arms and hold her back.

"Hey!" Christine protests, trying to wrench herself away, but they're too strong and they hold her fast.

"I'm sorry," one of them says, the taller one, and she actually does look sorry, her pale blue skin shaded indigo with a blush; "We can't allow unmarried females of any race to touch our men. The statutes of the planet forbid it."

"Our Prime Minister says we're unclean and inspire lustful and confused thinking," the shorter one adds cheerfully, but she is quelled by a stern look from the taller one.

In other circumstances she would be content to respect their customs and their culture and step back without a fuss, but there's no time for that here, they have too few hands and they need her help. She opens her mouth hotly to speak, but McCoy's too fast for her —

"She's married," he says, eyes down, reaching across the table for a tricorder with blood-slick hands. "To me. She's married to me, alright?"

They look at her.

"Yeah," she says weakly, meeting McCoy's gaze as he looks up. She glances away quickly, colour rising in her cheeks. "Married, we're totally married."

They look sceptical. "But she has none of the markings," the shorter one says, and Christine looks around herself: the taller official and several of the injured females on the beds surrounding them have intricate lacings of tattoos up their right wrists and forearms.

"I'm allergic to ink," she says, trying to sound genuine and failing spectacularly, "delicate skin, and all that," and she hopes they miss the sarcastic drawl to her voice, smoothly shaking off their slack hands and stepping out of reach.

"Now will you let her do her job, goddamnit?" McCoy says with a raised eyebrow, then goes back to peering with a light into his patient's gaping chest cavity, and they at least have the good grace to look abashed.

"We're terribly sorry, sir," the shorter one says, "ma'am," but Christine's already at McCoy's side, clattering out the instruments he'll need onto the operating slab, and they back away without further protest.

"Thank you," McCoy says in her ear, "_darling_," and she bites her lip to stop herself from laughing.

* * *

The shorter Enkahrnadin official clearly feels bad about the whole thing, and sixteen hours later, when they're all dropping from exhaustion and most of the worst of the injuries have been mopped up, she comes in to bring them to their rooms to sleep for a few hours.

There's one room for Christine and McCoy to share. Of _course_ there's only one.

Christine mournfully watches Byatt and Hakopian disappear down the hall to their own individual suites. "Not fair," she says, and McCoy shakes his head and opens the door. The room is barely a cubbyhole, with one narrow bed tucked into the corner.

"Come on," he says, clapping her on the shoulder. "Let's just get some sleep."

She follows him in, closing the door and locking it behind her, hand lingering over the doorknob. He rubs a hand over his jaw; the sound is scratchy, and she can tell he needs a shave. "You all right, Christine?" he says blearily, making a move to touch her face but his hand falls away either out of tiredness or because he thought better of it, and she nods, because, God, how selfish and childish is she to complain about this — he needs his sleep, and she needs to shut up and act like a professional.

"I'm fine," she says, and smiles brightly and falsely. "I'm okay."

He looks more than a little doubtful, but his fatigue wins out in the end. He groans in appreciation as he hits the thin mattress and is out cold a minute later, still fully-dressed. Christine slowly peels off her boots, sits down on the edge of the bed before taking a deep breath and lying down beside him, careful to keep as much space between them as possible. Christine's too wired, too hyper-aware of his warm body beside hers to sleep at all; she lies still, trying not to shift too much and wake him, but he starts snoring and flings out an arm that hits her cheek and she realises that she's not in much danger of accomplishing that.

Christine folds his arm back against his side, stares at the ceiling and wonders if the _Enterprise_ will get here any faster if she just wishes hard enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Well, I lied. I said there wasn't going to be any more, but here, have a morning after snippet:

* * *

"Christine."

Someone is jabbing her insistently in the ribs. She flaps one hand in that general direction. "Go 'way," she says, and connects with solid and very warm flesh--

She opens one eye warily. McCoy is leaning over her, his mussed hair falling in his eyes.

"You are sleeping," he says very patiently, "on my _arm_," and she realises that her legs are tangled with his, her knee hooked around his calf, and she strangles a gasp and rolls over, horrified, onto her stomach.

"Nngh," she says, and covers her head with the thin useless pillow.

"Yeah, good morning to you too," he says, and when he climbs out of bed it gives a massive squeal of protest and the mattress lurches under her. She doesn't reply, just buries her hot face into the mattress deeper, but he tickles the arch of her bare foot with feather-light fingers and she squeaks and jerks her legs away. He laughs and pries the pillow away from her, saying, "Come on. Up. We have to get back to work."

She flops onto her back, weighing the pros and cons of sitting upright. She squints up at him, trying to rake one hand through her wildly tangled hair, hoping her cheeks aren't as pink as they feel, and tells him conversationally, "You know, you really need a shave."

He throws her boot at her.

* * *

THE END. FOR REAL THIS TIME.


End file.
